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Clint Barton was pretty sure he was underwater.
Well, he must have been, with the way the sound warbled around him and how his limbs just couldn’t seem to move on their own. Something was pushing down on him, sinking him into this….
Couch?
He was on a couch?
Eyes flying open, he could only just make out the copper-toned floral pattern in raised corduroy in the dim light. Stereotypical Manhattan apartment — though, no where fancy. This was pretty far from Stark Tower. His eyesight failed to get anything more than that.
Feeling, though? That was a whole other sensory experience. The springs stabbing into his back and aggravating his… stab wounds? He was pretty sure he’d never forget the feeling of that — though he shouldn’t have forgotten it’d happened this time at all, so….
One out of a few mysteries solved, at least?
But others remained: Where the hell was he, and who the hell pulled this piece-of-shit couch out of some dumpster where it likely belonged?
His outfit squeaked as he groaned and tried to move his legs, the rest of the (extremely complicating) puzzle pieces clicking into place in his brain.
Shit. OK, so maybe there was one more question to be answered, and maybe it was the one that scared him the most: Why the hell was he still in his Ronin get-up, mask and all? Or rather, why the hell was he here in some normal apartment building and not held hostage and damasked by now?
Or was someone saving him for the end of the meal, like some kind of prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box?
A groan escaped as he sat up a bit, fingers digging into the sofa cushion. Every tendon felt like it was on fire, with most of the pain flaring just above his left hip bone.
“Easy there, killer.”
Clint offered a bit of a breathy chuckle to the gravelly tone in his ear — the only part of the person’s voice he could really make out right now (were his ears really ringing that badly?). It might not have been the right time for a joke like that, considering his current uniform, but he had to at least give whoever it was the credit that they deserved on that… even if he wasn’t going to listen.
The clearly female voice sighed, closer now and sounding vaguely threatening. “Don’t you dare pop those stitches. I just tied them up. And let me tell you, despite what you might think, you are not a peaceful sleeper.”
But whoever she was, her delivery was more apathetic than even he had expected. Like she was used to cleaning up other people's messes. Like he was just another in a long line of fuck-ups she’d handled lately. Like an anonymous vigilante that might have just blown up a seedy club in Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t even a highlight on her Monday morning.
Clint wasn’t sure why that made her tone more comforting, but it did — he was also fairly attracted to her.
“Where am I?”
He might have slipped into his best Batman tone for the question, unsure whether someone could recognize his voice — his cover had been blown on worse pretences, after all. And who knew what she’d heard about Ronin.
He was a little more scared of the latter than he’d like to admit.
“My apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, where I dragged you after saving you from a dumpster that has become way too popular. Is there like a time-share situation with all you masked people or something?”
“Not sure I follow,” Clint rasped, blinking the figure at his side into focus and wondering just how hard he’d landed. “But who are you, anyhow?”
“I should probably be asking you that question, no? Considering I found you a dumpster, where it looks like you’d landed after a long dive off a tall roof?”
OK, so his body wasn’t lying to him. And neither was his nose with the remnants of garbage… awesome….
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” she asked, a wary half-smile stretched across her lips as she finally came into view.
Maybe his instant attraction hadn’t been so far off; she was beautiful. The kind of beautiful he might’ve blamed on hitting his head too hard a few hours ago. It was normal for vigilante saviours to have their own little halo after saving him from death and all.
And tonight might not have been the first time he’d had the urge to kiss someone for the simple pleasure of just waking up.
Especially after a fall like that.
“Maybe a truce would be better,” he groaned, his feet feeling like they were made of solid concrete as they finally hit the floor by the couch.
He eyed the legit-looking bag of medical equipment beside the couch and realized his saviour was in scrubs. A lanyard stuck out just below where her shirt fell, listing a name in all-caps black lettering: Claire Temple.
“Is this what you do? Nurse street villains to health?”
“You mean stitch up vigilantes who have a knack for dumpster diving?” She sighed, shaking her head and looking up at the sky like she was questioning her entire existence. “It’s not exactly my day job. Apparently, I’m enough of a sucker to want to help, even if it means housing people who’ve almost put me in a grave once or twice.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Nothing like what you do.”
Her response was quick and practiced — sharp, even — but somehow still… proud? Clint would have argued she was more of a hero than he was most days if he’d had the strength. After all, who the hell took a mass murderer into their apartment — in New York, no less? That was all the news reports had said about him, anyway. Not that they were wrong…
He’d wondered if she even knew who he was, or if she just assumed she was another Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.
That’s where her legend came from, after all. And he’d always assumed that what it was — a myth — considering it was spoken in the same breath as dragons, NYC ninjas, and demonic resurrections.
But what the hell kind of person would take him in?
The answer to the question Clint was losing a hold of was, ‘generally, a stupid person.’ But Clint had a hard time thinking this woman, Claire, was anything but sharp. Which only left one other option.
She knew a lot more about powered people than she let people realize.
“So, what do I owe you?”
“Not wrecking my handiwork, for one,” she shot back, glaring at the way he was already itching to get to his feet. “Lay back and let me make sure you didn’t pop them. Can’t have you bleeding all over Manhattan on your way back to wherever you hole up.”
“Brooklyn,” he offered against his better nature,
She appraised him, “You’re a long way from home.”
“I travel a lot for work,” he said with the cough of a laugh that rattled around his chest uncomfortably. He hissed and clutched his ribs. “No health insurance, though.”
“Tale as old as time,” Claire muttered, pulling up his t-shirt without as much as a warning.
“Hey!”
“I think I liked you better when you were unconscious. Much more pliant,” she said, searching the bandages for stray blood. Clint squirmed as her palm skimmed his abs, “Much quieter too.”
But Clint wasn’t as focused on that, not when he caught sight of a hospital badge hanging out of her back pocket. “Claire, huh? Why does that sound familiar…”
Now that his brain wasn’t rattling around in his skull, the scenario was starting to seem familiar. Not quite déjà vu, but like a story he’d heard before. Injured beyond repair, taken in by a woman who was clearly trained, totally fine with anonymity...
“Wait — you’re the Night Nurse, aren’t you?”
“Is that what they’re calling me?” She huffed a breathless laugh, rubbing her forehead with her ungloved wrist. “You’d think I was some sort of superhero or something with that kind of name.”
He wanted to come up with some witty retort, something that could coax that smile out of her and maybe distract from the pulsing pain radiating from every joint, but, in an almost painful snap, everything went quiet. Too quiet.
“Fuck,” he breathed, staring up at Claire with wide eyes.
She was already a little frantic, her words mouthing things he couldn’t quite make out in this light. Another minute or so and she’d probably figure it out, or think it was some kind of traumatic brain injury. Of course his hearing aid would choose this very moment to go out, when his fingers too sore and swollen to reach under his mask.
Clint did some split-second math and played (what he assumed was) the odds. On one hand, she could flip and realize an Avenger was pulling double duty, run to the press and make some money to get her out of this corner of the city. On the other, she might not even blink.
But if this was the infamous Night Nurse, like he suspected, he could probably trust her with his identity.
With a resigned sigh, Clint pulled the hidden zipper up on the back of his head, pulling the mask off so he could take a better look at his aids. It only took a few swipes of the buttons to reset them. He fiddled with the earpiece and shoving it back in where it (mercifully) snapped back on.
All the while, Claire gaped, eyes round and as big as the moon. He didn’t have to hear the words to know what she said.
“Ho-ly shit.”
Clint winced, expecting the worst.
She looked more worried about the fall-out than he did until her brows knit together and a crease crossed her forehead. “Wait. Aren’t you bow and arrow guy?”
Clint shrugged — somehow it was better than Hawkguy.
Hands covering her mouth, Claire looked to be struggling for what to say next. “Is—isn’t your super secret identity kind of important to your… career?”
Shit. He probably thought he was going to off her for finding out.
“I, uh… I’ve been thinking of getting out of the business for a while now. Well, this gig, at least.”
That seemed to quell some of the fear in her eyes — which was good, considering he didn’t mean to scare her. That was the last thing he wanted to do, actually. The first involved maybe a date or two and ended at his place.
But maybe that was the concussion talking.
“And I figure since we both have some skin in the game now…”
“I won’t go running to my friend at the Bulletin?” she asked, tone incredulous.
There was a whisper of a smile there, though. A sort of half-smirk he hoped would stick.
“Yeah, that,” Clint mumbled, his eyes darting from her warm brown eyes to her plush lips. “So, we had a deal, right?”
“Right — I mean, I wouldn’t have said anything, anyway.”
They both had a lot to lose here, though Clint definitely had more. Maybe one day he’d be a worse judge of character, but somehow he knew Claire was trustworthy. She’d earned the respect of those she’d helped in the past, and he could see why.
But he’d already done enough damage, and there was more to do tonight. More assholes to cross off his list before he could put the suit away.
“I should probably go.”
He rose before he was ready, wobbling as his head swam again, and in an instant, Claire was in front of him, steadying hands on either arm. It was almost comical with his form towering over hers, but there was actual strength there. I guess lifting patients was a big part of her day job.
“Whoa, whoa there,” she hissed. “You should so not be walking yet.”
A dopey smile crossed his face at her concern, as he held his ground, staring back at her with an intensity he didn’t know he still had in him. “I’ve managed with worse.”
“Somehow, that’s not comforting,” she said, though she couldn’t hide the bit of a grin that slipped out as she looked up at him. “Like, at all.”
But even as he stood there without a wobble, her hands didn’t leave his arms.
Clint didn’t really want them to, anyway.
“So, is this the part where we both swear to secrecy? If there a payment involved or is this a credit kind of system?”
“How about this?” Claire said, biting her lip as if waffling on the words that followed. “How about, if you see me out there, in the real world, you buy your friendly neighbourhood Night Nurse a cup of coffee? I’ll settle for just about anything that isn’t sewer water, so it’s a pretty good deal.”
“Just coffee, huh?”
“Just coffee.”
They both knew that meant anything but.